


won't set my sights on other seas

by attheborder



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Fantasizing, M/M, Mild Feminization, Roleplay, let solomon tozer be a wife guy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:09:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28578777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attheborder/pseuds/attheborder
Summary: Solomon considers matrimony.for my Terror Bingo square: "Marriage Proposal"
Relationships: John Irving/Solomon Tozer
Comments: 34
Kudos: 71
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2020)





	won't set my sights on other seas

“How many men has this bed seen, eh?” Solomon is asking, smoothing his hand over the neatly pressed sheets of Lieutenant Irving’s bedplace.

He admires the way John’s lashes flutter, the way his full lips tremble; the bob of his darkly stubbled throat. He savors the hesitation, knowing it will not last: for all that the lieutenant plays at restraint, makes displays of discipline up and down the deck, he has never suffered Solomon to wait long when they are alone together, not when they play these games of theirs.

“So—so many,” John stutters at last. “I’ve lost count.”

Solomon tuts gently. “Each one more rotten than the last, eh? They’ve not been hurting you, have they?”

Another pause, this one more melodramatic than the last, and Solomon has to school his face out of a smile and into a more appropriate mien of charitable concern. The more maudlin the better—John’s a sensitive soul, requires just the right atmosphere; else his temper’s liable to rise, his jaw to clench, his whole body to pucker right back up into its habitual sourness. And that won’t do at all.

“They do terrible things to me,” John is saying now, his voice dropped to a husky whisper; he raises a trembling hand to the side of his face, and then lets it fall away.

“Oh, you poor thing,” says Solomon, lifting a hand to stroke at the imagined bruise there on John’s unblemished cheekbone. John flinches away, but Solomon captures his head between his palms, thumbs just brushing against the sides of John’s mouth. “I won’t be like them.”

John blinks up innocently at him. “But… how can I be sure?”

Solomon knows well that John’s never had another man; nor any woman, at that—he’s Solomon’s and Solomon’s alone, as revealed early on. Solomon’s already hard, but Christ if thinking on that fact now doesn’t send a renewed rush of blood to his prick, and he feels the next chapter drawing near.

“You’ll have to trust me, won’t you,” he says, and with a growl bears John down backwards onto the bed, thighs bracketing John’s legs as he goes for the golden buttons of the lieutenant’s waistcoat.

Solomon has never seen John in his civvies, though he often idly imagines how he would look in a sharply cut black suit, nipped in tight at the waist just like in the fashion plates, the long lean lines of his legs enhanced by some fine tartan. John's always been a scrawny sort but he’s grown even thinner this last winter on the ice, tending towards self-deprivation as he does: parting the tails of John’s shirt and palming at his smooth sunken chest, it occurs to Solomon only now just how well a pretty low-necked gown would suit him, showing off those clavicles, with perhaps some pearls shining at the hollow of his pale throat.

“Dear, dear,” he murmurs close to John’s ear, fingering at the perfectly clean linen of John’s collar, “they’ve got your dress all dirty—tossing you about like that, it should be a crime. But I’ll buy you a new one, how’s that? Green, to match your eyes?”

It was the right thing to say, it seems, for a value of right: John, bless him, _squirms,_ visibly undone at the very thought, his gaze gone glassy, and Solomon eagerly—but not roughly, never rough—tugs down John’s trousers and basks in the sight of his spread legs, his rosy-clean and welcoming fundament. With military efficiency, he slicks himself with the tin on the side-table and then, holding John solidly down, presses himself inside.

Then he fucks John, slowly, tantalizingly; it’s difficult, when he’s so hot and tight around Solomon’s prick, but worth it, for the sounds John lets out: the tight, bitten-back gasps, at first; then the full throated whines that would be right dangerous if not for the rest of officer’s country deserted at this hour and the galley plenty raucous besides.

“Please,” John whines, “please, Solomon—”

“Greedy little thing,” Solomon grunts, moving faster now, “not your fault, though is it? You can’t help it, can you?”

John shakes his head, mouthing a hoarse voiceless whisper of _no, no._ Here, now, he can be absolved: Solomon has done, will do it, over and over, as many times as John needs.

“Not your fault they did this to you, made you a fiend, love,” Solomon goes on, “cause once you’ve got a taste for it you’re ruined, isn’t that what the doctors say? Oh, it’s a shame, it’s a damn shame, darling.”

Tears are brimming in the lieutenant’s eyes; it’s all a bit much, really, or it would be if Solomon was thinking clear enough to find it funny—but he’s not, because the clench of John’s arse and the smell of John’s skin have driven all the sense out of him, and he’s deep in it as John now, sticky visions pooling like melting pitch at the back of his mind: carrying John in his arms out of some sordid molly-house—showering him in fine jewelry, perfumes—or whatever it is he likes, Solomon hardly knows, but he could find out, he’d have to find out.

“Touch yourself, there, go on,” he says, but despite his fervent wish to see John bring himself off, those shapely fingers so nimble at calculations and chronometer-readings will not deign to even brush the beast of a prick that throbs untouched against his belly. Worth a try, but no great loss: he pushes John firmly back up the bed, the better to get at it himself—and there, see, his hand fits as well around it as it ever has, and John’s head knocks back hard against the bulkhead with a lovely noise in a splendid proof of Solomon’s prowess. “Take you away from this sinful place,” says Solomon soon, still working John’s prick in time with his thrusts, “how about that, my pet, to somewhere warm and nice, and I’ll be the only one who ever fucks your pretty cunt the rest of your days—”

“The others—they’ll come,” John gasps out.

“Never, never,” says Solomon, “won’t let ‘em near you, will fight the bastards off if I have to.”

John’s hands twist in the bedsheet; one comes up at last as if to touch Solomon, to pull him close, but it hesitates, falling down instead to his bared white chest, where he clutches at his own skin, drawing red claw-marks up and down as he whispers: “Promise? Do you promise?”

“I do—I do—I'll keep you safe—I’ll marry you, I will—”

He shouldn’t have said it, but there it is—too late—surely they’re both picturing it, now, as Solomon spends inside with a punched-out groan, and John’s heavy prick in his hand does the same. It jerks so sweetly, John’s seed spurting and sliding down the sunken plane of his stomach, which rises and falls rapidly as he comes slowly down from that great holy height.

Now Solomon knows well he ought to get up, pack himself away before the glow dissolves and the lieutenant’s grey world reasserts itself harsh around them, but he’s still dizzy with the image: John Irving all done up like a bride, kissing Solomon before the Lord and everyone, later on in some fine and wide bed letting Solomon bugger him with the skirts of his lacy frock hiked up around his slender hips…

Before he leaves John be, he cannot help but dip his head and brush his lips quick as anything against John’s bare knuckles, unadorned except with frostbite scars.

 _Meant it,_ he doesn’t say; when he looks up at John, the man's eyes are shut tight, as though trying to keep something out, or maybe to keep it in.

***

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr](http://areyougonnabe.tumblr.com) and [twitter!](http://twitter.com/areyougonnabe)
> 
> title is from "archie, marry me" by alvvays 🥺


End file.
